


Ultrahigh

by maydependent



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Light Angst, Longing, M/M, Smut, Supernatural Elements, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:49:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28809909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maydependent/pseuds/maydependent
Summary: My Love  is alien,I picked him up by chance.He speaks to me,in ultrahigh frequency.(Adapted from: "Poor Boy" by Split Enz)An AU where a lonely Rammstein guitarist gets an unexpected companion.
Relationships: Oliver Riedel/Christoph Schneider | Doom, Richard Kruspe/Paul Landers
Comments: 10
Kudos: 54





	Ultrahigh

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thank you to my dear friend and beta Wahnsinn, for your never ending support and another spectacular beta-job. This too-long-for-a-one-shot fic would have never seen the light of the day without you. 
> 
> Also want to thank my cheerleaders (you know, who you are), who kept encouraging me to continue and finish this fic.
> 
> And as always: This fic is a 100% product of my imagination.  
> 
> 
> * * *

Richard’s eyes were fixed on the criss-cross of shadows cast on the linen white ceiling. He was in the middle of a rather successful twisted triangle pose, and he tried to achieve just the right alignment with his arms. When he thought he finally had perfected the pose, a contented sigh escaped from his lips.

Inhale, hold, exhale, pause. 

Blinking his eyes slowly, he tried not to sway while he momentarily lost his focal point. He savored the feeling of his muscles gently twitching from the static stretch. The first drops of endorphin started to flow through his body and slowly wash away the effects of another early morning and a long day of travelling.

Yoga had become his way of dealing with the stress and escaping the madness of the ongoing European tour. It was no secret that Richard loved his five-man band. He basked in the excitement of travelling and performing to sold out stadiums two, three nights a week. Though in his free time, he took great delight in the balance, exertion, and stillness of yoga.

Inhaling again, he scrunched his face muscles twice and then released his breath with an exaggerated yawn just like he had been taught. He was about to repeat the exercise when he got interrupted by a gentle touch just below his shoulder blades, something that his yoga instructor had often done to correct his posture. Blinking his eyes open, not breaking the pose, Richard quickly scanned the hotel room for the source of the touch. Nothing. He assured himself that the sensation was just his own tired muscles playing tricks on his mind, even though it had felt oddly warm and soft, just like real fingers. 

The room was quiet except for the steady hum and rumble of early evening London traffic from five stories below and the soft voice of Lana Del Rey crooning from the wireless speakers. Allowing his eyes to close again, he made a mental note to take an extra dose of magnesium supplement afterwards.

Another inhale and the fingers were back. This time the touch was a lot stronger, rubbing lower, nearing his hips. Richard quailed, screeched, and toppled over, landing head first on the plush grey carpeting, just barely avoiding crashing into the coffee table.

Arduously gathering his limbs from the floor, Richard checked his surroundings and brought his hands to where the ghostly fingers had been. The feeling was gone as quickly as it had come. He grabbed his water bottle from the coffee table and reached for his phone, quickly swiping through the newest incoming messages before switching off the music.

Silence. Sipping water, he did a quick walk around his room, checked the bathroom, and even peeked behind the heavy curtains that framed the window wall. 

“Uhm. Who’s here?” he inquired aloud, acknowledging the insanity of his actions.

There was no reply, nor more odd, intimate touches. It was just another generic junior suite, in another generic posh hotel, in another city that was threatening to become generic to him as well.

Richard took one more gulp of water, swiped his mouth, and capped the bottle. He cracked open the door and peeked out. The hallway was deserted except for a housekeeper and her cart over by the elevators. With no rational explanation of what had just happened, Richard shook his head and decided to take a quick shower, and a not so quick nap. More magnesium, water, and sleep, and less mind altering substances would probably do him good.

\--

The second time it happened, less than a week later, they were on a plane on their way to their next destination. Richard had almost forgotten both where they were going and where they’d just been. He was definitely getting old; partying through too many nights a week had left him exhausted. That bone deep exhaustion made even breathing an effort at times, and they still had three weeks to go before the tour would be over. Richard just wanted to doze off, close his eyes, and forget everything for a moment. But as he was just about to surrender to the sweet pull of sleep, every muscle in his body heavy as a bag of sand, there was a sudden touch on his lower ribs. The warm caress was oddly comforting, and the gentle stroking motion was soothing... 

Richard blinked awake, groggy and disoriented. Slightly confused, he pulled his blanket higher while trying to slap at the invisible intruder, but the feeling was gone again. Slouching back in the comfy private jet leather seat, he zoned out again in just a matter of seconds.

But the fingers were back. The touch was not a light caress this time, but a bolder and more purposeful squeeze at his lower abs. Richard yelped and yanked awake, and if he hadn't been restrained by his seatbelt, he would have jumped out of his seat.

Even though Richard was often described as a very considerate and polite guy, even he had his limits. “What the fuck!” he belted reflexively at no one in particular, immediately regretting his harsh words. “Just… Not fucking funny."

There was no reply or reaction from his bandmates or crew, who were mostly asleep as well. Richard huffed and straightened up in his seat, adjusting the bunched up hem of his hoodie. He felt too annoyed and worked up from the interruption to continue with the nap.

His eyes landed at Schneider and Oliver, who rested in their seats a row ahead of him. He hadn’t yet been able to figure out the current state of their relationship. They were clearly great friends, but maybe more than just friends? It seemed deeper than most friendships he had witnessed. Schneider curled sleepily into Oliver's side, one arm tucked possessively around the taller man's waist. It screamed of intimacy.

Richard flickered his gaze from sleeping Flake to Till, who was busy with his laptop, head nodding to the music from his headphones. Till’s lips mouthed silent lyrics as he typed away. Suddenly, as if he could sense being watched, he shifted in his seat and looked up at Richard.

“What?” Till mouthed at Richard, clearly a bit concerned at how distressed his friend looked. He removed his earphones, got up, and sat down in the empty seat beside Richard. 

“You look worn out.”

“Yeah. I’m all right. I think I’m just really tired, but oddly twitchy at the same time. And my head's a bit sore too.” Richard yawned and rubbed his eyes briefly with his palms to underline his words. “You?”

“I was just typing some lyric ideas. Been either too busy or lazy to write down my ideas lately”. 

“Yeah. I hear you.” Richard sighed, still trying to come up with an explanation for what had woken him up. “I just had a weird dream - one of those where you’re not sure if you are awake or asleep.”

“Must be the fucked up sleep patterns," Till noted. "You know, the older I get, the more I want to wake up in my own bed. Yeah, our hotels are fancy, but still miss my own house."

Richard nodded. He remembered the early years, when the band still traveled in a tour bus. From city to city and country to country, they always had their familiar bunk beds at the end of the day. Life was simpler back then, even though five people sharing the same tight space for weeks had been infuriating at times. 

"I don't mind the hotel beds, but I wish we didn't have to change hotels every two or three nights. Why did we stop using the tour bus? I kind of liked that."

"We stopped using the tour bus because your ego grew too big," Till deadpanned. He tapped Richard's knee with his heavy hand in a fatherly way. "And honestly, we fought too much during the last tour. You and Schneider were getting on my nerves so badly that I had to hitchhike with one of the tour truck drivers from Amsterdam to Barcelona just to avoid punching your pretty faces."

Richard laughed. "Actually, it's all coming back to me now. I'm quite sure it was your snoring. It made everyone else so sleep deprived that we needed separate hotel rooms."

"Oh piss off Risch, I don’t snore."

The steady humming of the jet engines lulled Richard into his own thoughts again. Maybe he didn't miss the cramped tour bus, just the company, having someone close to him at all times. Even Till snoring while he tried to sleep had felt comforting. Richard got enough alone time in between touring and recording. The rest of the band was busy with their own projects, partners or families. He felt like he was missing out on something, he didn’t know exactly what it was, only that he wanted it.

Instead of hurrying back into the conversation, Till just observed quietly for a while. He was smarter and more observant than he preferred to let people know, and he hadn't missed Richard's eyeing Oliver and Schneider who lounged on their seats unaware that they were being observed. 

“Contemplating the mysteries of life?”

“You could say that,” Richard replied and inclined his chin towards the snuggled up pair in front of them. “So what do you make of it?”

“Honestly?” Till almost snorted. “You didn’t share a paper thin wall with Schneider at that Warsaw hotel. Either he’s a very vocal sleep talker, or he had a guest…” Till leaned closer to Richard. “I’m pretty sure I could see Schneider's dental map on Olli's shoulder the next day”. 

Richard snickered. He reached for his bag and rummaged around until he found a painkiller, a water bottle, and his noise canceling headphones. He swallowed the pill and smiled tiredly at Till.

"I guess we need to bring the subject up in a band meeting sooner or later then," Richard noted, adjusting the headphones and muting the world around him.

\--

The band got a well-deserved break from touring after their Milan show. Deciding to enjoy their time off together, they had booked a secluded luxurious villa near Lake Como for five long days before continuing to Rome. The first two days were spent sleeping and relaxing in the pleasantly hot September sunshine. Richard even managed to work on some song ideas that had been brewing in his head for some time.

“Risch,” Till's deep voice echoed from the second floor bedroom balcony. 

“Yeah?” Richard turned around in the sun lounger and squinted to see the singer lean against the decorative railing.

“Are you ready? We’re leaving in five - going down the road to that vineyard for dinner.”

“Yeah, let me just grab my shoes,” Richard replied. He wiggled his bare toes again and closed his book. His feet had felt a bit odd - numb and tingly - for a good 10 minutes, and going for a walk sounded like the perfect way to get his blood flowing again. 

Feeling too lazy to jump up immediately, he grabbed his phone and opened his instagram account to post a selfie he had taken earlier. As he was trying to come up with a good caption, the static tingly feeling in the ball of his feet was replaced with the touch of warm invisible fingers.

Looking up from his phone, Richard tried to keep his body totally still, afraid to break the spell. He almost stopped breathing. The invisible hands started kneading the soles of his feet. It was so fascinating and odd that he closed his eyes and laid perfectly still. Allowing the peculiar feeling to continue, he decided to enjoy every second of it. He even let his mouth fall open and a pleasurable purr-like half-moan escaped his lips. 

“Hey Risch.”

It was Schneider, which meant probably Oliver, too. Those two were attached at the hip these days.

“Touch my feet,” Richard whispered hurriedly at the drummer. He wanted to know if the others could sense something odd at his feet, because he was too afraid to check himself in case moving meant that he would lose the sensation again.

“I love you, but no fucking way I’m touching your feet.” 

Richard blinked his eyes open to find Schneider and Oliver standing just meters away, hands in their pockets, both staring at him. And just like soap bubbles vanish when touched, the invisible foot rub was over.

“So,” the bassist began, carefully choosing his words. “What’s the thing with you and people touching your feet?”

“Oh, fuck - forget I even asked,” Richard retorted. He jumped up and gathered his belongings before heading inside. “Just forget it Olli, ok?”

\--

The band had a pleasant visit and dinner at the winery. Richard bought a few bottles of their best red to take back to the villa, without even asking for the price. Pleasantly buzzed from the alcohol, they walked up the hill, chatting, laughing, grateful for their time off. Crickets were playing in the roadside bushes. Several times, they stopped to admire the view or to wait while Till stole lemons from a roadside orchard just for the fun of it. By the time they finally got back to their villa, the night was still warm. They decided to sit down in the gazebo for a while, now that they had the luxury of some time off.

Till fetched a corkscrew and five wine glasses from the kitchen, because according to him, it would have been barbaric to consume such a fine wine straight from the bottle. Opening one of the bottles, he poured five glasses and sat down next to Richard on the couch.

“So Richard,” he began matter-of-factly. “What was that incident earlier?”

From the corner of his eyes, Richard saw how both Oliver and Schneider leaned back on their couch and stared into the distance. He should have known that not even the smallest detail or most irrelevant issue was left undiscussed in this band. Sighing wearily, he contemplated trying to dodge the question, but it was so sincere, and Richard was no longer in a foul mood. He reached for a glass, took a sip of the deep purplish wine. The liquid flowed easily down his throat. With hints of blackberries and chocolate it was as tasty as promised.

He decided to explain it all, instead of just answering Till’s question. “I’ve had these weird sensations a few times now - like some invisible fingers and hands were touching me.” He paused and saw four pairs of eyes earnestly looking at him, encouraging him to keep going.

“The first time was two weeks ago in London. I was doing yoga in my hotel room, and someone or something suddenly touched my back," Richard explained. "I found no logical explanation to it, so I just dismissed it as a weird twitch. Then a few days later, during our flight to Barcelona, I was just about to fall asleep and I felt the fingers again, on my abs.”

Richard took another sip of his wine. He fiddled with the glass and avoided looking at the others before continuing.

“And today my feet were odd and tingly for a good ten or fifteen minutes, and just as I was about to get up to stretch them a bit, I received an invisible foot rub. I tried to stay perfectly still, because the feeling was strange, but so good, and I didn’t want it to end. And when Schneider and Olli got there, I wanted them to touch my feet to see if they felt anything abnormal.” 

Schneider sat up, leaned forward with elbows on his knees, and looked both relieved and concerned at the same time. "You’re not doing any drugs again - right?”

“Nope.” Richard hesitated a bit. “I mean, not apart from the occasional weed we have shared after shows. And muscle relaxants if my back starts acting up - but haven’t had any of those for weeks.”

Schneider nodded, remembering their recent London show where Richard fell off the rubber boat just as he was about to step off it. As any guitarist would have done, he had protected his arms and therefore landed on his side and back, which caused him to pull a muscle and gave him a nasty bruise on his shoulder.

"The touches are not scaring me. Now that I'm getting kind of used to them, they're actually quite comforting, you know." Richard smiled. The others looked sceptical, but nodded anyway.

Feeling more relaxed now, Richard remembered that there was a reason why the band had agreed to be open and share important stuff. He observed the two men on the other sofa, sitting just a tad too close to each other, and hoped that maybe they'd find the courage to open up.

"The next time you ask me to touch you, I’ll do it," Oliver promised. “And I think you should see a physician and get a medical check. You know, just in case, so that it ain’t something serious.”

\--

The following day their tour manager organised an extensive medical check for Richard up at a fancy private clinic in Milan. After an appointment with a general practitioner, he had several vials of blood drawn and meetings with both a neurologist and a psychiatrist. None of the doctors seemed too concerned. They said that it was likely caused by tour stress and exhaustion, but they decided to do a brain MRI just in case.

The longer Richard laid motionless in the dimly lit, narrow MRI tube, the more anxious he became. His head was caged in and his eyes were a mere 20 centimetres away from the ceiling. Closing his eyes, he tried to forget his whereabouts, but it was impossible due to the machine pounding his head with decibels that could almost measure up to a rock concert.

Richard had never been a fan of tight closed spaces. Now he was stuck in one. Trying to calm himself down, he breathed like he did during his yoga practice, but a cold sweat was already making his face and palms moist. He felt his pulse quickening and his breathing becoming more arduous as the suffocating weight of anxiety began to press against his chest.

_'Is this what a panic attack feels like?'_

The thoughts were quite rational considering the state he was in. Afraid of a full-blown freak out, his shaky fingers frantically searched for the nurse call button by his thigh, but were met by a familiar, warm touch. Richard reached for it greedily, clinging to the comforting warmth like it was his last lifeline.

The touch stayed with him, gently stroking the back of his hand from wrist to fingertips, calming him down and supporting him through the remaining 20 minutes.

"Thank you," Richard whispered once the MRI quieted down and the touch started to vanish.

\--

"That's great news Risch!" Till gave Richard a wide grin and a thumbs up from the pool where he had been doing laps. Having already shared the good news about his health with the rest of the band, Richard parked himself on the terrace next to Oliver, who was having a snack. He cradled a cold bottle of beer in his hands and stared at his fingers, trying to remember how good and comforting the touch had felt earlier. 

As if he could read Richard's mind, Oliver put down his now empty plate. "Am I interrupting a moment with the friendly ghost?" he inquired, wiping his mouth.

"No, you're not." Richard sipped his beer and let his taste buds savour the bitter liquid for a while before swallowing and continuing. "But he did appear… " Richard stopped mid-sentence realising what he had just said.

"He?" Oliver leaned closer, suddenly more interested. "You think it's a he?"

"It," Richard tried to correct his earlier words. "Or, I don't know. Didn't feel very feminine to me somehow."

"Well, I heard that Schneider already named it Casper the friendly ghost. So I guess 'he' sounds..." 

"Casper's back?" Till interrupted.

Richard looked up. He hadn’t noticed the singer getting up from the pool, but now the dripping wet vocalist stood in front of him with an amused look on his face.

"Let's not name him - uhm - it, Casper. That would be my neighbour's annoying five year old son," Richard pointed out, still not sure why the masculine pronoun kept reappearing.

Till started drying himself with a towel, but his thoughts seemed elsewhere. Suddenly, he stopped what he was doing and looked happily at Richard. "Paul. Let's call him Paul!" the singer declared.

"Paul?" Both Richard and Oliver questioned in unison, not able to follow Till's train of thoughts.

"Yeah. Paul," Till repeated smirking and pointed at the St. Paul beer bottle that Richard was gently caressing in his hands.

Like some nicknames just tend to stick, this name also stayed. No matter how many attempts Richard made to get rid of it, the other four had made up their minds.

\--

"Good morning Richard, good morning Paul!" Oliver and Schneider chirped when Richard joined them for breakfast in Budapest. It was the morning of the show day and Richard was in a really good mood, having slept remarkably well.

"Well, good morning, husbands!" Richard flashed a wide grin as he sat down, which made Schneider almost choke on his cereal.

Paul had become a regular in their conversations, like a sixth band member, which did cause a lot of confused looks from the tour crew. The ‘ghost’ had started making more regular appearances after the MRI incident. Richard could often feel small, comforting touches throughout his day, and even though he sometimes questioned his own sanity, the caresses had been good for his mental wellbeing. He had already become fond of his invisible companion.

Sometimes he told his bandmates about the touches as they happened, sometimes the other four were able to tell Paul was with them from Richard's weird, dreamy looks. Even Flake, who had been the most suspicious of the weird phenomenon, had grown to accept Paul, because he could see how happy, contented, and relaxed Richard had become.

Some of the encounters Richard chose to keep to himself. Like how falling asleep at night had become easier when he could feel gentle fingers stroking his back and shoulders, lulling him to the most peaceful sleep.

He never used Paul's name when speaking to his friends, he opted to use 'it' instead. But once alone in his hotel room, Richard sometimes addressed Paul by name and talked to him, even if he was not sure if Paul could hear him.

"You know, Paul," Richard had started when he had returned to his room after breakfast, "I'm quite excited for the show tonight. Till finally accepted a change to the set list, and Budapest has always been great for us."

He picked up his guitar, opened the balcony doors, and stepped outside into the warm and humid Budapest morning. The Danube river glimmered in the sun and the street below was busy with people travelling to work. Sitting down, Richard lit his second cigarette of the day.

"I guess you don't mind if I smoke," he chuckled, inhaling twice, and then carefully balancing the cigarette on the edge of the ashtray. With closed eyes, he started strumming his guitar. The strings were cool under his fingertips. He let his intuition guide his fingers along the fretboard, creating harmonies that soon felt familiar to him. Unintentionally, he had returned to a melody that he had been working on recently. The piece was dark, but mellow, and he had struggled with the bridge - somehow it just didn’t fit, no matter how many versions he had tried.

"How should this go..." he muttered under his breath, fingers dancing on the guitar's neck, searching for the right sound.

Richard huffed and stopped playing, fingers still on the strings. He watched a river boat filled with tourists slowly working its way upstream past the hotel. After the tour, he really should book a holiday for himself. Maybe he should head to New York, a city he loved, to meet some old friends that still lived there.

Out of nowhere he felt an invisible force press down his pinky finger and move his index finger one string up to a new position. Staring at his fingers for a few seconds, he strummed twice and savoured the sound. Then he replayed the entire bridge to see how the unusual chord change would fit in. To his great surprise, it was perfect, just what the song needed. Richard smiled happily as the problem was solved and started jotting down chords into his worn out notebook.

"Thanks Paul, that's brilliant," he looked up and smiled. "Is there anything you're not capable of doing?"

\--

The Budapest show was just as good as Richard had expected. The Hungarian crowd was insane and reacted to every song with a fervour which made the band’s playing improve yet another notch. Richard was in heaven. It was the most fun performance he'd done in weeks. He goofed around with Flake, entertained fans with imitations of Till's stage antics, snuck behind Oliver to lick his upper arm, earning the tiniest smile from the bass player. He even climbed up to Schneider and splashed the drummer with water. Payback would be a bitch, but that just made everything more fun.

By the time the first heavy beats of Sonne began, Richard assumed his signature power stance by his microphone and played his guitar like it needed to be punished. As they progressed towards the last chorus he made sure he was positioned right, and prepared for the last set of flamethrowers going off. Richard momentarily closed his eyes. He knew that the big flamethrower right in front of him would start shooting flames in just seconds, and he didn't like how the heat burned his eyes.

_4 - 3 - 2 - 1…_

Everything happened in the blink of an eye. Richard hit the note, felt the scorching heat on his face, but it felt too hot, burning. Before he even realised what was happening, he was forcefully shoved back, away from the malfunctioning pyro.

Richard stumbled, but managed to stay upright. Bewildered and shaken, he was barely able to hear the music from all the blood coursing in his ears, but he still somehow managed to finish the song. Before he had an opportunity to touch his tingling face, he was ushered below the stage by two black clad stage ninjas.

A worried looking Till rushed after him.

"Richard, look at me - are you ok?" he yelled over the noise of the rest of the band doing an impromptu extended outro. "Fuck, that explosion scared the shit out of me."

The tour medic was already busy giving Richard a proper check-up. Now that his breathing had calmed down a bit and his adrenaline levels were no longer climbing, Richard's face felt less hot, and not burned like it could have been.

"Richard, talk to me." Till was getting anxious, and was hovering above the stunned guitarist. Richard had never witnessed Till to go from his bold and rumbustious stage persona to a worried mother hen so quickly. Maybe he felt partly guilty for what had happened, since his love for pyro was the reason their shows visually resembled the final scenes of Hollywood action movies. "Risch, are you hurt?" 

Richard watched Till yell at the staff that all stage pyro was out for the remaining couple of songs. Then the vocalist returned his attention to the dumbfounded guitarist. "What the fuck even happened there? Do you have a sixth sense, or how could you react so fast?"

Richard's thoughts were looping around the seconds that the entire episode had lasted. The more he replayed the scene in his head, the more clear everything became to him.

"I'm not hurt," Richard stated, looking straight into Till's eyes. He then leaned closer to the singer to prevent the others from eavesdropping.

"It was Paul. He shoved me out of the way and saved me."

\--

The afterparty, for the occasion organized by the Hungarian representatives of their record label who had insisted on hosting it, took place in a secluded dimly lit cellar restaurant less than two blocks from their hotel. A long buffet table was set with all kinds of local delicacies, including wine and palinka. 

Richard parked his full plate and wine glass next to their tour manager who was in the middle of a long conversation with some Hungarians about the challenges of tour logistics. He greeted everyone and then dug into his food, because he was starving as always after a show. He tried to follow the conversation, but his mind was lost elsewhere. No matter how good this 'Paul' had been to him recently and how fond Richard had become of his supernatural companion, he was by no means a real person. 

After a few chats with fans and some mandatory mingling with the record label’s guests, Richard excused himself from the table and headed for the bar where Till and Flake had gathered a group of people around them. There was something so charismatic and interesting about Till's persona that people were always drawn to him - something the singer seemed to enjoy, but still regularly bitched about at band meetings. Richard tapped Till on the shoulder and leaned closer to his ear.

"How soon can we flee this place?" Richard enquired.

Till just laughed at the words, but then he turned towards Richard. "Why in a hurry Risch? See that lady there, not sure if you've noticed, but she's been staring at you for quite a while, why don't you get to know her better?" Till winked at him.

Richard shook his head in amusement and then looked up at said woman, who was sitting alone at the end of the bar. She was kind of cute, a short brunette, perhaps in her late thirties. Wearing a black dress with high heeled boots, she smiled shyly at Richard. 'Why not?' Richard thought and went to talk to her.

Half an hour later, Richard and his new lady friend sneaked out of the restaurant for a smoke. She was fun and had a nice body, and she kept touching Richard's arm affectionately whenever he said something, clearly flirting with him.

"Wanna come back to my hotel room?" Richard murmured into her ear once he was done with the cigarette. She seemed to tick enough boxes for him, and Richard didn't mind the idea of getting laid. The woman nodded and smiled at Richard, reaching for his hand. But as their fingers connected, the woman froze and her face went pale. Yanking her arm away almost violently, she shuddered, cursed, and almost cried as she backed off.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Richard asked worriedly, very confused at the sudden twist. He watched her hurry towards the main street, and the moment she flailed her arms screaming "get off me," it hit Richard what, or more precisely who, had just happened.

"God dammit, Paul," He cursed and jogged after the panicked woman, who had already disappeared around the corner. By the time Richard made it to the main street, she was nowhere to be seen. Pissed off, he ran across the street and almost got hit by a taxi, stormed through the hotel's lobby, and went straight to the elevator. Richard really wanted to punch the possessive and menacing spirit. 

"Paul! What the fuck did you just do to that woman?" Richard belted at the empty hotel room walls as soon as the door to his room had clicked shut behind him. "Stop scaring people away from me!"

He kicked off his shoes angrily and threw his phone and cigarettes on the bed.

"You can’t stop me from fancying people, Paul. You can’t stop me from having sex. I haven’t gotten laid in–" Richard paused and tried to count back. "–in a fucking long time. I can’t live in a celibacy, I'm a man with needs whether you like it or not." Richard huffed and almost tore off his jacket and shirt in one go. He pulled down his jeans, not bothering opening the zipper properly, and threw them on the floor.

He ripped off his socks, then his underwear came off with the same frustrated energy. Standing in the middle of the room stark naked, exasperated, and with both hands clenched into tight fists, Richard was ready to fight. "I have libido of a fucking rabbit who’s all out of carrots, and I don't want to get a fucking strain injury in my hand from just wanking alone."

He stormed to the bathroom and banged the door shut unnecessarily hard. For a few seconds, Richard even considered locking the door to put more emphasis on how pissed off he was.

Standing in the middle of the bathroom, Richard side eyed himself in the mirror. His eyebrows were pulled together, his jaw clenched, and the vein at the side of his forehead was throbbing. He looked angry, but also disappointed. There was still a faint smudge of stage makeup around his eyes, which made him look sad. Richard loved a good confrontation every now and then, just to let some steam out, but it was hard to argue with someone who didn't actually exist nor reply. 

Once his breathing had calmed down, Richard turned on the shower, stepped in, and closed the glass door behind him. For the first minute he just let the warm water embrace his body while he tried a few settings that the fancy shower offered. He settled for the rainshower with colored LEDs, reached for his shampoo, and started washing his hair.

 _'Maybe she even wasn't my type afterall, just another groupie,'_ he thought, now that he had calmed down from the earlier burst of anger.

Richard twitched when he felt warm hands appear again, gingerly stroking his sides. It felt like an apology, but he continued to rinse his hair, like he hadn't noticed a thing. He poured shower gel into his palm and moved onto washing his body. The invisible hands slid to Richard's front, now circling his chest.

"You know, I'm still mad at you," Richard said sheepishly. Staring at the sandstone beige tiling in front of him, while the LED lights were gradually turning from a pink hue to purplish blue, Richard realised he had no clue what was happening to his life. But the soft, comforting touches made it impossible for him to hang on to the remnants of his rage.

"I don't know what or who you really are, Paul. You've been so good to me, you even saved me today on stage. So, thank you." Richard's voice was low, he could barely hear himself over the flood of droplets drumming against the floor of the shower. "I just get so lonely at times. I crave intimacy and companionship."

Richard barely managed to finish his words before the touch slowly started circling his sensitive, tingly nipples. An unexpected, coarse hum escaped his throat, and he squeezed his eyes shut to concentrate on his other senses. A sudden delicious pinch made a wave of pleasure shoot straight to his groin, and Richard had to brace himself against the wet shower wall to keep standing. 

Before he managed to mentally prepare himself, rhythmic pinches and the sweetest strokes started ravaging his chest, accompanied by a few sharp bite-like sensations on his shoulder that made Richard's knees buck. It was just the right mixture of pain and pleasure, and he could feel himself harden at an alarming pace. His body was an instrument that the hands knew exactly how to play. His head was dizzy and his body rippling from anticipation.

"Oh. Oh. Yes," was the only words Richard's brain and mouth seemed to be able to form when the fingers finally slid lower, reaching his almost painful erection. Richard inched backwards under the now limegreen rainfall, moaning as the hands picked up their speed, fervently jerking him off.

Cascades of water fell on his head and ran down his muscular back, bouncing off his well-curved cheeks. He felt a sweet tickle creep from every corner of his body to pool in his groin and stomach. Richard's mind was floating, desperate for release, but also addicted to the torturing feeling of balancing right on the edge.

After a minute or two of rhythmic pumps, time seemed to stop. Richard bit his lower lip hard, almost drawing blood, curled his fingers and toes, and tightened his buttocks. His entire body spasmed violently as he shot his release again and again, mouth gasping for air under the soft spray of water as if he was drowning.

\--

The bedroom was dimly lit behind the closed curtains when Richard stirred awake hours later. He had fallen asleep on top of the sheets, starfished on his stomach, covered only by the white hotel bathrobe. Each of his limbs felt heavy as lead, but also weirdly floaty at the same time. Richard was so relaxed from the brain-shattering orgasm that he wasn't sure he had any control of his body left. 

"Paul," he muttered drowsily against the pillow. "Am I dead and is this heaven?"

The steady hum of the air conditioning and a barely audible insect-like buzz from the minibar was the only reply he got.

"Why are you so good to me, Paul?" Richard moaned, trying to bite back the smile, but he failed, clearly smitten by the attention he'd received. 'If you're going to be weird, be confident about it' was going to be his new mantra. Not like he had ever been totally normal. Richard had always rebelled, refusing to fit the molds and swimming upstream - because only the dead went with the flow. But being jacked off by an invisible companion really made him stand out, even in this band.

"Please confirm that I'm not going crazy, lying here talking to my imaginary friend who gives the best handjobs, but who seems to be avoiding me afterwards." 

Still quiet.

"Do you think I was a bad fuck and you're regretting it? I'm not regretting it, Paul. You were great."

Richard forced his eyes open and reached for his phone. It was 05.44. Still too early to get up, he thought. Closing eyes again, he tried to ignore his bladder that was sending him not so subtle hints about needing a visit to the bathroom. "Paul, please do me a favour - please pee for me."

Nothing again.

"Fine, fine. I'll do it myself."

Twenty minutes later Richard was definitely awake, up and ready for another day, dressed, shaved, and with his black hair tamed to look less like Sonic the Hedgehog and more like himself. Breakfast was still more than half an hour away, so he took the key card and decided to head out for a short walk by the river.

In the hallway, Richard stopped to quickly scroll through the band group chat. Apparently Till and Flake had stayed up quite late at the party and would probably not be heard from before noon. Just as he pocketed his phone, Oliver's door clicked and slowly opened.

Richard saw a familiar figure step out from the door. "Morning, Christoph," he greeted, causing his friend to freeze, hand stuck on the handle, life probably flashing before his eyes. "You're up early, too," Richard continued matter-of-factly.

Schneider looked like a kid who'd gotten caught elbow deep in the candy jar. Still in last nights' clothes, he tried to look nonchalant, but failed spectacularly. That man had no poker face at all.

"Go change your clothes, I'll wait here. We're going for a walk," Richard said. For some reason, he felt this was a good time for a little chat.

\--

They walked in expectant silence until they reached the banks of river Danube and sat down on a stony wall, backs against the morning sun. While Schneider fiddled nervously with his key card, Richard took his time fishing a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it, and taking a long drag.

"So," he said, exhaling a thin cloud of smoke. He offered the cigarette to Schneider, who accepted it gladly, took a long drag, and immediately started coughing.

"Now I remember why I quit smoking," the drummer said between coughs. "It tastes like shit and burns my lungs." He handed the tobacco back to Richard.

"I should cut down too, but then always some shit happens and I…" Richard shrugged. He stopped mid sentence, trusting that Schneider got the point.

"So," he continued. "What's the deal with you and Olli?" 

He watched Schneider bury his head in his hands, the hotel key card pressing a sharp dent in his forehead.

"Things are not going so well at home. We are breaking up, and it’s been really tough on me, but Olli’s been there for me and…" Schneider confessed, words coming out at rapid speed now that the floodgates were finally opened. "...one thing led to another and I think I've developed feelings for him."

Richard snaked his arm around his friend, who released a long and shaky breath at the touch.

"Sorry to hear about the breakup. Is it something recent, or?"

"Spring was bad, a nightmare, and me being away rehearsing, recording, and planning the tour all the time didn't help either."

Richard nodded at the familiar story, having gone through a similar breakup not too long ago.

"The decision of ending it was hanging in the air when the tour began. She didn't even say a proper goodbye to me when I left, and she isn’t answering my calls. I think she has moved out already."

Richard rubbed Schneider's shoulder in a comforting manner. "I wish you had told us sooner. We're your family after all."

Schneider shook his head, with a sad smile on his lips. "That was the problem."

"Cruel."

"Yeah."

"I don't think she deserved you."

"Mm."

They sat quiet for a while, watching the muddy river water stream past them, creating swirls and tiny foamy waves when the current hit any obstacles. A long and narrow riverboat, docked not far from them, was being loaded with boxes of food. Just as Richard was about to continue asking about the possible romance within the band, he was faced with a question himself.

"Did you have a good night with that lady last night?" Schneider smiled weakly and wink at him. "We noticed you having gone missing from the party, and thought you'd taken her back to your room."

"Did not take her back."

"What? Why?" Schneider stared at Richard with a confused look.

"Well, she ditched me."

It wasn't technically a lie, but more a half truth.

"Damn. And we were all so happy for you, that you were getting laid."

Suddenly the steamy moments in the shower were playing in a loop in Richard's head, the invisible fingers against his wet skin and then stroking him until climax. He couldn't care less about the woman.

"Richard, why do I have a feeling you're hiding something? Oh c'mon, you're smiling and blushing so hard. Spill it all."

"Only if you do, too. We need to know, as a band, where you two stand. It's not like we haven’t noticed, but we need to know where you're at with Olli. We're your family, right?"

Richard watched Schneider fidget for a while, combing his hand through his hair, fiddling with his earlobe, scratching his ankle.

"I don't know where we stand, because I haven’t wanted to get too serious until I've dealt with the breakup. But I really like his company, for once I'm with someone who really understands me. And he's single too, so…."

"Well, you've known each other for a big part of your lives," Richard reminded him. "Do you think the feeling is mutual? Because we don't really need messy relationship drama in the band - we're already enough drama to begin with."

Schneider laughed heartily and stood up, stretching his sides and turning to face the morning sun. "I promise, we'll be careful. Let's go and continue this at hotel breakfast, shall we? I could really use some coffee."

"Yeah, let's go."

They walked towards the hotel side by side, admiring the old limestone clad buildings and chatting about their plans for returning to Berlin later in the day. It was nice to be up early, walking around without being recognized or stopped by fans, seeing the city waking up to another day.

"You still need to tell me about last night," Schneider said casually as they crossed the street by their hotel. "Judging by your blushing earlier, it must have been a good one. Did you find someone else?"

Richard shook his head, considering the absurdity of the words that he was going to say. Better just get over with it, he thought, clearing his throat and lowering his voice.

"Someone found me."

"Oh."

"Do I really need to say more?"

Schneider looked confused. Richard lit another cigarette, and waited for the drummer whose eyes were twitching as he tried to solve the riddle.

"Wait. You mean…" Schneider began, shifting closer to Richard, lowering his voice into a whisper. "Paul?"

"Mmmm."

"Wow."

They stood there for a while, Richard smoking and Schneider staring at him, mouth slightly ajar.

"How do you…" Richard could almost hear the gears in Schneider's head turning.

"He kind of speaks to me, or communicates through actions, in some strange ultrahigh frequency." 

"I mean, you implied something sexual happening - how does it work? You can't really fuck him, can you?"

"Well, he does have hands, or what I consider as hands," Richard winked, making his friend burst out laughing. "Does it make me…"

"Ghostsexual?"

"Maybe that too, but mental or weird?"

"Weird is good." Schneider patted Richard's shoulder. "Breakfast, please. Can we continue this over some coffee?"

\--

It was strange being back in Berlin again after touring most of the summer. Weird, but good. Richard emptied his entire suitcase in the washing bin, then shuffled through the pile of mail that his neighbors had kindly picked up from the mailbox and piled neatly in three piles on his kitchen table. He walked to the corner store to pick up some groceries, and took a long bath before heading to bed.

Lying awake, just enjoying the feeling of his own bed, he surfed mindlessly on his phone when it started ringing.

"Hi, sorry for calling so late, are you still up?" It was Schneider.

"Yeah, enjoying my bed."

"Am I interrupting something, is Paul with you?"

Richard laughed. "No, all alone. I was just wondering if he knows that I'm no longer in Budapest."

"Well, he's had no problem finding you earlier. So I think you're safe."

Richard sighed. He wished Paul would appear again. 

"So what happened, did you return to an empty house then?" he asked, remembering their chat from the morning.

"Yeah."

"So it's over, then. Sorry to hear that."

"Nah, I'm already over it - spent enough time thinking about it while on tour. I actually wanted to ask you something. Olli and I are going to Jens Koch's party on Wednesday, he's celebrating a new book that he's published. Mostly friends and family, and some industry people too, but very informal. Do you want to tag along?"

Richard considered the invitation for a while. He didn't have anything planned for Wednesday. They wouldn’t have rehearsals before Thursday, the day before their final show. Going out and meeting people did sound like a great idea. "Would I feel awkward being the third wheel on your date?"

He heard Schneider laugh at the other end of the line. "No, it's not a date - just friends hanging out. Please come."

"Yeah, sure. What time is it?"

"At 6pm. I’ll text you the address. See you then, and sleep tight!"

Richard put his phone away and turned off the lights. Lying curled on his side, his eyes followed the lines and shapes that the faint lights from between the curtains drew on the ceiling and walls. His mind was suddenly full of concerns. He was insanely grateful for the company he had had in his life over the past few weeks, invisible or not. At the same time, his happiness was shadowed by the fact that Paul only existed in some weird telepathic way that was out of Richard's control. Being touched felt so wonderful, but not being able to touch, see, or talk to Paul was painful.

Pulling the blanket tightly around himself, Richard felt lonelier than ever. Though as he closed his eyes, he felt gentle, almost assuring strokes on his shoulders.

“Thank you,” he whispered, and let Paul lull him into a restless sleep.

\--

Jens's party was held in a spacious penthouse apartment in the outskirts of Friedrichshain. Richard arrived late on purpose. He wanted to get in as incognito as possible, and usually arriving later in the evening helped. People were already pleasantly buzzed from a few drinks and so busy socializing that he could slip in unnoticed.

He did a quick tour of the place before spotting Jens leaning to a counter by the kitchen.

"Oh Richard, great to see you," Jens exclaimed happily.

"Jens." Richard hugged him and gave him a bottle of wine he had saved from the visit to the winery in Italy. "Thanks for not throwing me out for not being on the guest list. And congrats on the book."

Jens just laughed. "Oh, fancy wine, thank you. Of course you're always welcome - how is the tour? Excited for the weekend?"

"Yeah, the tour is great. But can't wait to have a few weeks off once we're done. Are you both coming to the final show?"

"Yes. I'll be on duty documenting the whole thing." Jens grinned like a kid on Christmas day. "There isn't a place where we'd rather be."

Jens's husband Philipp appeared on their side and gave Richard a hug and a kiss on the cheek. "Richard, long time not seen! Have you tried the food already, and the drinks are there on the side table, please help yourself!"

Nodding at the hosts who already had a newly arrived couple to greet, Richard slipped out from the kitchen. Prints from the new book were hanging on the walls all around the room, and he stopped to look at some of them before navigating towards the catering.

"Hi Schnolli," he greeted his two bandmates who were helping themselves to bite sized cocktail snacks, again standing very close to each other.

"Oh, hi! You came! Did you bring a companion?" Schneider, who seemed to be very cheery considering his breakup, winked to imply who he was meaning.

"He really is an independent and quite stubborn creature, so I have no idea if he will be here or not," Richard shrugged as he poured himself a glass of Riesling. A weird mental itch had gotten stronger during the few minutes he'd been at the party. It didn't feel like stress or anxiety that Richard had suffered from at times, but more like keyed up expectation.

"Grab some food and come sit with us on the terrace. The weather's great and the view isn't bad either."

“Sure.” Richard stared at the plethora of delicious foods, picked a few random pieces, and headed out after his friends.

\-- 

For nearly two hours, they sat in a group of around ten people, lounging on the sectionals in the corner of the roof terrace. Richard knew a couple of Jens' friends already and recognised a few more by their faces. Many of them were interested in their tour and the upcoming final show. Richard tried to reply politely to their smalltalk and questions, but was too scatterbrained to really concentrate on the discussion.

"We're popping inside," Schneider said, getting up along with Oliver and heading towards the doors.

Richard watched the two men disappear inside, Schneider gently guiding Oliver with his hand at the small of his back. He wondered if the other guests had noticed the tender touches and whispers between the two men. Then again, Jens's guests were a diverse and liberal bunch, not blinking an eye on some man on man tenderness. Richard could recognise budding jealousy. He wanted to experience that swooping feeling of infatuation, to be smitten and ridiculously happy, even if just for a short while.

Excusing himself, Richard walked to the far end of the roof terrace and dug a cigarette out from his pocket. Leaning against the railing, he sunk into his own thoughts, staring at the dark city and the sea of lights while inhaling the bitter smoke. He wished that Paul was with him.

A familiar melody infiltrated his thoughts, like the most persistent earworm. Richard smiled and hummed along quietly as he finished his cigarette. But when he turned around, his smile faltered and he froze.

It was not an earworm. It was a guy with a guitar, with both his arms bandaged, sitting alone by the wall - and he was playing Richard's song, the one he had been working on in Budapest.

Gripping the railing with full force, knuckles white, Richard suddenly felt lightheaded and anxious. It was his song. And now this guy was playing it. How was this possible? Was he losing his mind?

Richard rushed back inside with wobbly legs, frantically searching for Oliver and Schneider. His heart was racing, his mouth dry, and his mind panicking as he raced from room to room, earning weird looks from some of the guests. Finally he saw Oliver and Schneider stepping out of the bathroom. Their satisfied grins were replaced with concern as they saw white-faced Richard rush towards them.

"Richard, what's wrong?" Oliver asked, grabbing the hyperventilating guitarist by the shoulders.

"I… my song… Paul…" 

Oliver ushered him into the nearest empty room and Schneider followed, closing the door behind them.

"Richard, you need to calm down. I can't understand what you're saying," Oliver stated. He guided Richard over to the bed, got him to sit down, and kneeled down in front of him.

"What's wrong, are you feeling unwell?" Schneider sat down next to Richard and started rubbing him between the shoulder blades.

Leaning against his thighs, head hanging low, Richard tried to stabilize his breathing. He kept repeating his yoga breathing exercise to calm his jittery nerves enough to be able to look up at Oliver, who was rubbing his thumbs gently against Richard's calves.

"Someone was playing my song on a guitar," he finally managed.

"Yeah, lots of people play your songs," Oliver remarked. "You don't usually panic over it."

"He played a song that no-one else has heard. Ever. Not even you two." Only Paul, he wanted to add.

Oliver and Schneider looked confused at each other.

"I've not even recorded it, it's not on my laptop. There's no way anyone could have heard it," Richard continued. "It's only in my head and in some messy scribbles in my notebook that no-one has access to."

"So what are you trying to say?"

Richard looked at his hands and then back at Oliver. "Paul."

"I don't get it," Schneider muttered. "So you think Paul somehow leaked the song…"

"No," Richard interrupted him. "I think he is Paul. Flesh and blood. There's no other explanation to it. Shit…"

"What?"

"He even had both of his arms wrapped in bandages."

Schneider was back on track again. "He saved you…" he said in total awe.

"Did you talk to him?" Oliver asked.

Richard's eyes snapped back to the bassist. "Damn. No." He rubbed his face in agony. "Why am I so stupid, I need to go back. I'm gonna make a fool out of myself, but I need to go talk to him now."

Before Oliver or Schneider had time to react, Richard was up and out of the bedroom door, weaving through the crowd towards the roof terrace like a man on a mission. He rounded the potted plants and the hot tub to find the secluded space at the end of the terrace - empty.

Turning around, he almost crashed into Jens, Oliver, and Schneider.

"Everything ok, Richard? I saw you pacing around inside," Jens asked with a slightly worried expression on his face.

Richard quickly scanned the surroundings, but there was no sign of the mystery man. He grabbed his friend’s upper arms. "Jens, this is really important, where did the guy with the guitar go? The short, cute, skinny guy, about my age, with a beanie and bandaged arms."

"I think he just left, minutes ago."

"Shit." Richard wanted to hit something."Do you know him?"

"He came with a friend of Philipp's, let me check," Jens said and walked to his husband, whispering something and then nodding along as he listened to the reply. He gave Philipp a little peck on the cheek and hurried back to Richard, who was nervously biting his fingernails as he waited.

"Yeah, Philipp wasn't sure, but we think he lives in Pankow and works for some magazine." 

"Do we have a name?" Richard pleaded.

"Yeah. His name is Paul."

\--

Richard woke up groggy and disoriented in Schneider's guest room. Due to the fragile state that he'd been in, after both finding and losing Paul in minutes, Oliver and Schneider had left him no other option than to stay over.

He stretched lightly and rolled over. His body felt like a weird combination of totally spent and incredibly keyed up at the same time. A headache was pounding his temples from stress and from being unable to sleep for most of the night - not a great start of a long day. 

There was a set of rhythmic drum-pattern-like knocks on the door before it was pushed open.

"Richard, we have the practise in two hours - you need to get up. We already picked up your car. And there's coffee in the kitchen."

"Thanks Schneider," Richard replied with a weak voice.

"How are you feeling? Heard back from Jens?"

Richard reached for his phone just to be disappointed that there was no message from Jens, who had promised to do anything in his power to get Paul to come to the final show and the afterparty. He shook his head. 

"I spent most of the night blaming myself for not doing something."

"Richard..."

"But I panicked, you know. I didn't know what to do," he exclaimed, sitting up and leaning his head into his palms.

"So what are you going to do when you'll hopefully meet him? Ask him for a date?"

Groaning out loud, Richard remembered the thought that had kept him up at night. The guy at the party was cute, for sure, but Richard had always dated exclusively women. And most importantly, he needed to find out about the weird cosmic connection, what did it really mean? Was it real? Infatuation? One sided? How does one even bring up a matter like that? _'Hi stranger-that-I-have-never-met-before, did you happen to give me an invisible handjob a few days ago?'_

Silently like a cat, Oliver materialized behind Schneider, wrapped his long arm around the slim waist in front of him. Richard looked up and saw Oliver press his lips against Schneider's shoulder in a very intimate way.

"I have no idea," Richard finally confessed.

"Does it have to be so complicated?" Oliver asked, resting his cheek against Schneider's hair and gently stroking the drummer's stomach. "I don't think he'll refuse the invitation, so you'll meet him after the show and see where it goes."

Richard's brain was about to overload. "I don't even know if I'm into guys," he started, looking at his friends. "I am not really opposed to the idea, but how can I be sure that I am attracted to men? Like how did you two know that you're attracted to guys?"

"Don't get stuck on the labels, Risch. I don't know if I'm generally attracted to men, but I sure am attracted to this fool," Schneider replied, blushing as Oliver gently bit his shoulder. "I guess you just need to just trust your instincts."

\--

At the rehearsal, Richard was feeling jittery. He almost tripped over four times, hit himself in the head with his own microphone, missed his cue, forgot to do his backing vocals twice, and earned too many concerned looks from his bandmates. He kept checking his phone and shaking his head disappointedly every time as there was still no confirmation from Jens. The itch was getting stronger and he was unable to scratch it.

By the time it was time to head back home, the others had already confiscated Richard's car keys, claiming that he would be a threat to himself and every poor soul out there. 

"We need you alive. I'll drive you home and pick you up tomorrow, ok?" Till announced, staring at Richard with such a meaningful stare that it left Richard no other option than to follow him.

"I'm sure he'll be at the show," Schneider comforted, though Richard wasn't sure if Paul being there would help him to deal with the stress and scattered brain.

Richard waved his hand tiredly at Oliver, Schneider, and Flake and followed Till to the car. He buckled up and groaned loudly at the situation.

"You gonna be all right tomorrow?" Till asked as he accelerated out from the stadium grounds and took a left towards the city.

Richard lifted both his hands, fingers splayed for Till to see. "Look at them, I'm shaking like a virgin on wedding night," he cried out. "Like the final show of the tour and home audience wasn't a bad enough combination for my nerves. Thank fuck we decided not to do a live recording in Berlin."

Till drove for a while, clearly pondering on something. Richard stared straight ahead, eyes scanning the early evening traffic, fingers nervously tapping rhythms against his thigh.

"So you fancy him then, the guy at the party." It was more of a statement than a question. Richard halted his drumming. "I don't know what's happening anymore, this whole Paul thing has already exceeded the limits of my rational thinking."

Till stopped his speech to concentrate on getting through the giant roundabout of Theodor-Heuss-Platz. "Forget about genders. If you like him, go for it. Have fun, be safe and all the usual stuff. I just want to see you happy."

"Thanks _dad_ ," Richard sighed.

"You're welcome _son_ , do you need more condoms and lube? I could stop at some store on the way…"

"Why is everyone so obsessed about me getting laid?" Richard groaned, hiding his face in his palms.

"Well, based on how you functioned today, you need to figure out a way to let out some steam before tomorrow. I’m sure the show will be great, and you deserve to enjoy it, too."

"I'll have a glass of wine and a warm bath or something once I get home."

Till drove in silence past Deutsche Oper, Charlottenburger Tor, and into the green heart of the city - Tiergarten. Richard watched families whizzing past on their bikes, an older couple seated on a bench, a woman jogging with her dog, and a group of teenagers frolicking around on a bus stop. But what caught his eye was a couple on the crosswalk by Siegessäule, two men strolling hand in hand, chatting and laughing happily. The more Richard thought about it, the more he craved for companionship and happiness and the less he was bothered by the fact that Paul was a man.

"I know a few nice ladies that would happily help you take some of the edge off," Till suddenly said, grinning smugly. “A few nice guys, too.”

"Till, no," Richard almost shrieked. "Just get me home, please, I'll be fine." He already had plans, ones that didn't involve Till's friends, busty or not. If he had to wait to meet the real Paul, he could always try to lure out the invisible version somehow.

\--

Summoning a spirit is not an easy task. Fame and fortune did give Richard certain perks when he wanted things to happen, but it didn't really work when trying to get in touch with a higher being. Richard had tried all the tricks he could come up with - including yoga, playing guitar, showering, and relaxing on the sunbed at the roof terrace, but his invisible friend didn't make an appearance. Though doing all those things had kept him occupied, and by the time he decided to give up, a significant chunk of the stress had already worn off.

"Thanks for nothing," Richard muttered as he opened the door to his wine cooler, picked up the last bottle of the Italian red he had left, and uncorked it. He poured a generous glass for himself and strolled through the living room to his favourite spot, a blood-red divan by the floor-to-ceiling windows. The late summer evening had already gone dark and mist-like droplets were forming on the glass from hopefully just a passing summer shower.

Richard sat down, adjusted his bathrobe, and took a long sip of the deep burgundy wine. Looking down on the sidewalk across the street, he followed the hypnotising streetlight-illuminated dance of umbrellas.

"What if it really was you at the party last night?"

The rain picked up in intensity, blocking his view to the street. Sharp needle-like raindrops drumming on the window and distant booms of a nearing thunder were the only sounds in the room. Richard watched how the pearly drops grew fatter before racing down the window in long rivulets.

"Or maybe I'm just going crazy, you know. Talking to walls here."

He stuck a finger on the glass and let it follow a drop which merged into a tiny stream, drawing a long windy line on the cool surface almost all the way down to the floor. Then he lifted his hand again and placed it on another drop, waiting for it to start its journey.

An almost unnoticeable touch, a sliver of familiar warmth, began gently caressing the sides of Richard's finger. When the droplet on the other side of the glassy surface suddenly accelerated downwards, his finger stayed still. He observed his hand like the most fascinating butterfly had just landed there and the slightest movement would make it fly away.

"Thank you." Richard closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and held it in for a few seconds before releasing the air from his lungs. Relaxing, Richard lay motionless on the divan, allowing every nerve ending to concentrate on the sensation that was swirling around his knuckles and wrist.

With a squeaky sound, Richard let his hand slide down the cool glass, expecting it to break the contact. The touch stayed. A weary sigh escaped his lips, it had been a tough day. Feeling Paul again was so comforting and intimate that he, a guy who according to his own words never cried, was terribly close to shedding a tear.

"Shit," he laughed nervously and wiped the corners of his eyes to prevent the sudden rush of emotions. "I'm so happy that you came. I really needed you today." 

Sitting up, he gulped down the remaining wine, put down the glass, and laid back again. "Sorry. I was getting emotional, please don't stop."

The lights of a passing convoy of emergency vehicles briefly coloured the droplets on the windows blue. Sheets of rain beat the building with hostile force, while inside, soft touches caressed Richard's forearms, upper arms, and shoulders. Richard started moaning, and as his moans grew louder, the touches changed. The faint, gentle strokes grew bolder and moved faster across his body, massaging shoulders and tracing his jawline.

Pushing his cheek against the touch, Richard shivered. The hair on his legs and arms stood up from the almost electric sensation. He reached down to the robe belt, linked his thumb through the knot and pulled. Releasing his hand, he let the robe fall open, exposing his naked skin and half hard cock.

"Please."

Looking down at his body, his eyes tried to follow the invisible fingers that somehow seemed to reach deep under his skin as they grazed downwards, wreaking havoc on his nerve endings. His breath short, shallow pants, Richard tensed his buttocks and abs in a series of rhythmic pumps, causing his erection to fill up and land against his stomach with a smack.

The pressure around his groin was delicious and blazing hot. When the invisible fingers finally stopped teasing and gave attention to his aching shaft, Richard growled out loudly and incoherently. His mouth hung ajar and his vision went blurry from the arousal as the invisible hands caressed him. Curling his toes and bending his knees, he spread his legs wide open as an invitation.

The rain outside had already quieted down, leaving Richard's groans and gasps as the only audible sounds in the dark living room. Maddening caresses were tenderly circling his balls, inner thighs, and groin, and Richard reached for his knees to force his legs even higher and further apart. The adapted happy baby pose was a steady constant in his yoga routine, but instead of seeking calmness and relaxation, he was now brazenly offering himself.

"Please, Paul," he whined. "Please, please, I love you..." The string of words vanished into the air when the touch unhurriedly slid deeper between his legs. There was something very sobering but also incredibly intoxicating about surrendering oneself in the most intimate way, but instead of shame or shyness, there was only unadulterated desire coursing through Richard's veins.

Unable to hold back anymore, Richard reached for his erection and began pumping. Normally he was all for delayed gratification, enjoying the build-up and taking his time finishing. But the combination of his own hand stroking in staccato and the devilish teasing of his hole made his patience run short.

The pressure building up inside him was so delicious and tormenting that it only took a few dozen frenzied pumps before his entire body tensed and became undone. Nearly losing control of his spasming body, Richard flung his palm against the window and dropped his left foot on the floor. Shooting the last drops of semen onto his fist and abs, he slumped back, totally spent.

The realization of the earlier confession of love hit him like a ton of bricks. "Oh God," he panted, hiding his eyes behind his forearm. It had been a Freudian slip, except this time the revelation came as a shock also to himself.

"Uh, if you heard that…" Richard began, but he was unable to finish the sentence, unwilling to take the words back. Instead he just stared into the darkness, those three words looping in his head.

\--

Final shows of any tour were always bittersweet. They were celebrations of accomplishment and ending strenuous months on the road, but also meant saying goodbye to performing highs and times spent together.

Falling off the hectic hamster wheel to just being at home with no schedule or purpose had always been toughest for Richard. The others always had a long list of things to do. Flake wanted to work on his new book, Till had plans to drop off the radar and become a part of the wilderness. And as far as Richard guessed, the couple in love would probably retreat to the closest bedroom for the next few weeks.

Though while he usually dreaded the end of a tour, this time things were a bit different for Richard. He was a man on a mission. Standing on the watershed of his life, Richard was determined and clear-headed.

Though there was still one major 'if' in the equation. He had not heard back from Jens, but he decided to mute his phone hours before the show in order to do his pre-show routines in peace. By the time they were toasting tequila by the doors to the underworld, Richard was as focused as ever.

"To the last show and home audience," Oliver toasted.

"To freedom starting tomorrow," Flake added grinning.

"And new beginnings," Schneider said, winking at both Richard and Oliver.

"To good friends and bad music," Till laughed sarcastically.

"Let's not fuck it up," Richard noted and downed his drink with a grimace, coughing at the sharp bite of the liquid. "No more tequila after this."

Minutes later it was Richard's time to take his place on stage in the historical Berlin Olympic Stadium. The roar from the over 70.000 people packed into the arena was almost deafening. For the first two songs, Richard operated on almost autopilot, rocking stoically, staring into the distance above the crowds while playing his parts spot on.

The devotion of the home audience was close to an out-of-body experience, gradually lifting him up from the depths of uncertainty. He turned to face Flake who was in the middle of his weird alien dance moves, flashing Richard his brightest goofy smile. Spinning around, he watched Scheider beat the drums like his life depended on it and Till wildly hitting his knee in his signature move. Oliver was on the other side of Till, hunched over his instrument in deep concentration, swaying to the beat, eyes hidden behind the hood of his stage outfit.

As he turned back to face the crowd, a gentle touch fleetingly tickled Richard's neck, a reminder of the person invading his mind. His eyes scanned the crowd frantically, even though his common sense told him it would be practically impossible to spot anyone in the churning sea of people. But at the beginning of the fifth song, Richard's eyes landed on someone familiar.

It was Jens with his camera, standing below Richard in the narrow space between the Feuerzone and the stage. Face lit up in a bright smile, Jens gave him a double thumbs up. Richard knew exactly what it meant, and it made something stir inside him.

\--

It was almost midnight when Richard made his way towards the afterparty through the maze-like corridors of the historic stadium. He was still feeling euphoric and extremely pleased about how well the final show turned out, they had truly finished with a bang. Freshly showered with hair styled to perfection, he was looking quite decent in a short-sleeved black shirt.

On one hand he couldn't wait to meet the mysterious Paul, on the other hand he was worried that everything would just go sideways and that he would end up fleeing like at Jens’s party. But the closer he got to the afterparty, the more confident he became. 'Here goes nothing,' Richard thought as he rounded the corner to the VIP Foyer.

The party was already in full swing, with friends, family, and other guests gathered in small groups, laughing and chatting. There was a buffet table by the entrance, and a DJ desk had been set up on the landing of the staircase leading to nowhere.

Accepting a beer from the bartender, Richard was immediately surrounded by people. Usually he loved being the center of attention, but now his mind and eyes were elsewhere. Scanning the room, his eyes finally found Jens and Philipp who were standing in a group of people, holding plates in their hands. Richard excused himself, weaved through the guests, and sneaked behind his friend.

He snitched a sausage from Jens' plate and popped it into his mouth before the photographer had time to react.

"Heeey," Jens turned around, smiling. "There's a buffet table by the entrance, in case you missed it.”

"Stolen food always tastes better," Richard stated, swallowing the sausage and reaching for another one. Jens managed to slap the intruding hand away, and leaned closer. 

"10 o'clock, by the windows," he whispered. He smiled smugly, making Richard jolt his head violently to the left where he finally spotted Paul. "Wooah, easy there. Didn't know you were into guys."

"Well, that makes two of us," Richard whispered back.

Jens put his hand on Richard's shoulder and rotated the two of them slightly, so they could observe Paul without being too obvious.

"So - based on what I've gathered his name is Paul Landers, and he works as photo editor for some media company in the city..." Jens began his report with a low voice as Richard measured Paul up and down. He was dressed casually in all black - jeans, a washed-out t-shirt, and the same beanie he had worn at Jens's party. He had a chunky watch on his right wrist and a silvery necklace half hidden under the shirt.

"....owns a dog and likes to go windsurfing. He's also quite a good guitarist, and played in some bands when younger. Apparently fun to be around, but can be feisty at times, so you don't want to get on the wrong side of him."

"Is he…" Richard asked, the sentence dying before it really even began.

Jens smiled. "Yeah, he's currently single. Single and open minded."

Richard's head was spinning with the new info and all the butterflies fluttering inside him were making him feel warm and giddy. He sipped his beer with a slight smile, eyes stuck on Paul.

"Why him, Richard?" Jens finally asked, after having observed him for a while.

"Hopefully one day I can tell you," Richard said, putting his empty beer bottle down on a table. "Wish me luck."

\--

Paul was standing with a fascinated smile on his lips along with a group of people listening to Schneider's drummer friend explaining some new promising drum software. Richard squeezed into the circle, silently nodding a greeting, trying not to stare too blatantly at the mystery man. Close up, Paul looked even shorter and more radiant than from a distance. A stubble of greyish beard and crow's feet by his eyes adding a charming touch to his charisma. He had an overall kind face. Richard's eyes stopped on a tattoo on the side of Paul's neck, trying to decipher the design.

"Richard!" Schneider's friend suddenly exclaimed. "You missed an interesting discussion. What do you think, would Rammstein benefit from having a fuller guitar sound - like using a separate rhythm guitarist?"

Richard was a bit dumbstruck at the question. "Not really. We already fatten the sound with me recording several guitar parts that we then layer for albums and for live performances. And I think it works perfectly, we're selling out stadiums, you know. Why do you ask?"

"Well, Paul here thought it would make your sound better and bring Rammstein to a new level."

Shit. Richard bit his tongue and cursed silently. This wasn't exactly a great start to testing his chances with someone he already fancied a lot. He tried to look away, but he could see Paul staring at him, poised and almost defiant. Richard tried to gather all his cosmic energy to send Paul some kind of telepathic message and resolve the standoff with minimal damage, but with no success.

"I don't know what your background is, Paul," Richard finally began, articulating himself carefully to avoid any missteps, "but I'd love to hear more about your views."

The unexpected statement caused almost everyone in the proximity to snap their heads towards Richard and stare at him like he had grown a second head. Luckily the other band members weren't there, or Richard would never hear the end of it.

"I believe the individual styles of different people playing would create a nice, rough edge to your music. Layering parts from just one guitarist can sometimes feel artificial to my ear." Paul said.

Richard pushed his hands into his pockets, trying to appear relaxed, confident, and - very unlike how he normally came across - down to earth. "That's an interesting approach." He bit his lip reflexively and flashed a tentative smile.

It was very unnatural for Richard not to defend his creations. He was known for being a perfectionist and for having a strong streak of diva in him. But as their conversation went on, all that Richard could think of was whether Paul could feel it too, the strange tingly static in the air. Their eyes met and stuck together and a weirdly loaded, but somehow very comfortable silence ensued. How could one even argue when possessed with a strong urge to reach out and gently touch the opponent?

"I think..." both Paul and Richard started at the exact same time, both stopping abruptly.

The tension made the short hair at the back of Richard's neck stand up. "Sorry, what were you saying?" he asked after a few seconds of silence.

"I was going to say that I think I need a bit of fresh air," Paul stated, digging a phone from his pocket and quickly swiping through it.

"Well, I was going to excuse myself for a smoke. And if that doesn't conflict with your idea of fresh air..." Richard replied, feeling like a tightrope walker, afraid of falling for every step he took, "...maybe there's room for both of us out there."

People started to disperse from around them as someone had given Joe Letz, the unofficial master of ceremony, a microphone. He was sitting on the edge of the bar, laughing at something that Till had told him. Paul pocketed his phone and looked at Richard suspiciously. “Sure, it’s your party anyway,” he shrugged, and took off towards the balcony doors without looking back.

\--

It took Richard maybe four minutes to push his way through the crowd laughing at Joe's speech, first heading to the bar to get two beers, then moving towards the terrace doors. He shook so many hands and patted so many backs on the way that the fear of Paul going missing again was starting to distress him. Close to the doors he passed Jens who gave him a subtle thumbs up, clearly having followed his endeavors from a distance.

Pushing open the door, he slipped into the cool night. Paul was leaning against the handrail, eyes fixed on the brightly lit and halfway disassembled stage. It looked like an ants nest with all the staff bustling around in their colourful helmets.

"It's strange to see our stage being torn down." Richard stopped next to Paul, feeling the infamous after-show low lurking inside of him. "But every end is a new beginning, at least that's what they say."

"Oh, you came after all. I thought you decided to give up smoking." It sounded like sarcasm, but Richard wasn't sure.

"I really should." Richard replied and offered Paul a bottle.

Paul shook his head and continued staring into the distance. "Thanks, but sorry, I can't."

Richard put the bottles down on the ground, not interested in drinking anymore. "Everything ok?"

"Yeah. Or I don't know." Paul looked at his bandaged arms. "I'm trying some migraine medication and they don't exactly mix well with alcohol. I had a couple of beers a few nights ago and woke up the next morning with only spotty memories from the night before, and with first degree burns on my arms. I have no clue of how I got them."

"Oh, sorry to hear. That must have been scary."

Richard wanted to hug the poor man so badly, and his heart was pounding in his chest.

"Yeah. I got weird neurological symptoms some weeks ago, tingling in my hands, weird dreams, out-of-body feelings, and so on. Went to see a doctor and they suggested trying some migraine meds, but I'm not sure if they're working yet, because the symptoms are still there."

Staring at the man in front of him, Richard's head was connecting puzzle pieces at an accelerating pace. Paul felt it too. Not the same way, but he felt it. Richard got a sudden surge of energy which made him want to...

"Sorry for being grumpy. And thanks for the invitation, by the way, Jens told me it was you." Paul glanced at Richard. "I almost didn't come, because I was afraid I might start feeling off again. And I didn't really understand why me? I’m sure you guys don’t hand out invitations to everyone you see at a party. But it's been a good night, you threw a great show."

"Paul." Richard said. He stepped closer, his heart racing so fast that he was sure he would throw up if he didn't do something. "Can I try something?"

Paul hesitated, but nodded. Richard took a deep breath, reached out and grazed his fingertips along the skin of Paul's arm just above the bandage. A static jolt of electricity shot out at the first touch, making both of them jerk in surprise, before it turned into a warm and pleasant wave spreading through their bodies.

Paul’s eyes widened. He pulled his arm away, staring at it as if he didn’t believe what he had just felt. Richard stood in silence, giving him a moment, looking into the grey abysses that slowly changed from displaying fear to showing a growing curiosity.

Hesitatingly, Paul lifted his hand. He glanced quickly at Richard, who smiled and nodded. Taking a deep breath, Paul stretched his arm out and let his fingers touch Richard’s arm. The same warmth radiated from his fingertips, and familiar feelings of comfort started filling Richard’s body until Paul withdrew, again staring incredulously at his own hand.

“...I don’t understand.” Paul’s eyes met Richard’s. They were blank.

“I don’t understand either,” Richard replied, smiling weakly. “Does it matter?”

Slowly, Paul reached out again, resting his palm on Richard’s cheek. The electricity between them was so overwhelming that Richard had to clutch the handrail to manage to stay upright. Closing his eyes, he let Paul’s fingers caress and explore his face, his head, his neck. It felt wonderful.

"It was you?" Paul finally said.

Richard opened his eyes. A tear was rolling down Paul’s cheek.

“I thought I was going mad,” Paul sniffled.

“If you are going mad, then let’s go mad together?” Richard’s heart pounded as he said the words, afraid to scare Paul away.

Before Richard had any time to react, two hands grasped his head, pulling him in, and he didn’t even register what happened until soft lips pressed against his own. He froze for a second or two, too many thoughts racing through his frenzied mind. Paul’s lips and prickly stubble didn't feel foreign, but just perfect - like finally coming home.

Richard's arm shot up from the railing and snaked around the slim waist in front of him, pulling their bodies together. He angled his head and parted his lips, tasting the sweetness of Paul's mouth, tentatively grazing his tongue along the tip of the teeth before diving in deeper. Surrounded by tiny hums, hurried breaths, and a steady low murmur, that might have been from Richard's own throat as well, they dove deeper into the kiss.

Richard savoured the overwhelmingly intoxicating feel from the millions of nerves sparkling at the contact, and warmth spreading throughout his body. His hands danced along the skin, fingers exploring wherever they could reach, making themselves familiar with the sinewy body in his embrace, the body he had wanted to touch so many times already. Their kiss wasn't just fireworks, it was universes colliding, stars being born, and soulmates being found.

Down on the ground, the workers continued to disassemble the giant stage, and inside the party rolled on, but the men on the balcony were caught in their own bubble. The only thing that existed in that moment was the two of them.

EPILOGUE

"Don't worry, there's just enough time." Richard pushed Paul's back against the cold dressing room wall of Wells Fargo Center in Philadelphia. Locking Paul's wrists firmly inside his fists, Richard nuzzled the short hair above the ear with his lips. "I even locked the door," he murmured, words melting into tiny kisses down the jawline.

Paul tilted his head sideways, dutifully exposing his tattoo to Richard's hungry lips. "It's not like lack of privacy has stopped you before."

Richard laughed against Paul's collarbone and returned upwards, peppering the skin with small kisses and occasionally nicking gently with his teeth, careful not to leave any marks. "Well, I guess they've learned to knock by now." Richard smiled, remembering the two of them getting caught mid-fuck at the backroom of Rammstein's rehearsal space in November, and then again a few weeks later at a Christmas party, Paul kneeling between Richard’s legs in Schneider's supposedly locked bathroom.

"Flake's probably knocking even on fridge doors by now, just in case, after he walked in on Olli and Schneider two weeks ago," Paul remarked dryly as the kisses had reached his nose. Richard pressed their foreheads together and stared slightly cross-eyed at Paul.

"Enough of Flake. How would you like…" Richard purred, languidly grinding his hips against Paul's crotch. "The sofa looked quite comfy, not sure about the table, it may not be sturdy enough." Richard catalogued the arena dressing room furniture from his memory, hypnotised by his partner's eyes.

"Are these your stage pants?" Paul asked in a low voice, swiping the index finger of his still restrained hand along the outer seam at Richard's thigh. "Because if they are, I don't want to risk ruining them. But that ottoman might be an option, and the blue rug looked rather soft, too."

"They are, but I could take them off if needed," Richard said, ghosting his parted lips over Paul's, the hotness of their breaths combining. "But, I, think, I, got, an, idea…" He punctuated his words with kitten-like licks, outlining the lightly chapped lips, making Paul's eyelids flutter and breath hitch.

As Richard released the grip of his hands, the licks turned more hurried, demanding access to the sweet mouth. Body still slack and submissive between the wall and Richard's pelvis, Paul finally gave in and surrendered into the kiss. He angled his head to give better access and pushed his tongue out to meet Richard's, who emitted a low and approving throaty groan.

For a short while, the only sounds in the room were urgent, hasty breaths and the wetness of tongues. Richard moved his hands from Paul's hips where they'd been gripping the soft flesh, to the button and zipper of his jeans. Breaking the lip contact, he pushed Paul's jeans and boxers down to his knees with a couple of fluid movements, then resumed the kiss. Paul shuddered when Richard ran his cool hands up along his sides, bunching his shirt up before sliding his fingers back down and to his buttocks.

"God, I worship your body." Richard scraped his manicured, painted nails against the naked skin, groping the firm ass. "Last summer I really wanted to touch and not just be touched. And now that I'm able to touch you, I just can't get enough of it."

"I've noticed," Paul replied, rocking his head from side to side against the wall. His hands were hanging slack by his sides, where Richard had left them.

"And guess what I also can't get enough of?"

"Talking too much?"

Richard laughed heartily, his mouth falling open and eyes becoming narrow slits. He lifted his hand to caress the corner of Paul's mouth and jaw, feeling the tickling of the short stubble. "No, this," he said, slowly getting down on his knees. Richard looked up with eyes filled with lust. "And this," he added, leaning forward, taking Paul's erection into his mouth.

Paul buried his hands into Richard's hair, which was stiff with gel and styled for the stage. "Oh my fucking God, I love you."

\--

While some things change, some things stay the same, like Rammstein’s “Schützenschnaps” - tequila shots - before their shows.

"To our new album." Till raised his glass high up to toast, looking at his friends. They were standing in a circle between gear trunks, cable coils, and a fire exit, near the entrance to the stage.

"To the first show, and the new tour. Here we go again!" Schneider grinned ecstatically, holding his drumsticks in his other hand.

"To new outfits," Flake said, extremely satisfied with his bedazzled outfit that made him shine like a beacon amidst all the black.

"To our new rhythm guitarist. You were right, we sound even better now - thank you for being stubborn about it. Welcome to the family." Richard looked lovingly at Paul, who was jittery before his first show, now officially part of Rammstein.

"To not fucking up, or passing out on stage." Paul smiled nervously, the corner of his mouth twitching. He looked at his bandmates, eternally grateful for the opportunity."Go big or go home, I guess."

Oliver laughed and patted Paul's shoulder. He then lifted his glass high up above everyone else's. "To the best band in the world. Let's go!"

THE END


End file.
